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Ethyrion the Cloaked
__TOC__ __NOEDITSECTION__ History Ethyrion presented a bit of a shock to the Nerath Empire when he presented himself flatly to aid their cause. His Eldarin features prompted many stares which quickly looked away when Ethyrion turned his pupil-less green eyes towards them. His gaze appears almost unnerving to those unaccustomed to his presence. He has taken to wearing a hooded green robe to keep the stares to a minimum. Soft-spoken with an air of detachment describe his traits almost completely. He appears to regret or meekly endure his presence in the realm. Why he enlisted, why now, no one knows but him, and he definitely is not stating anything. Often others have tried to engage him in conversation and his response is usually to stare away or piercingly right through the person. What he thinks, what he relishes, or dislikes all seem to be the same. For about a month no one even realized he spoke common until in combat he shouted a warning to a comrade about to fall victim to a surprise strike. He drew his longsword rarely if ever, mostly it hung as a decoration at his waist seemingly denoting some royal or noble lineage. When fighting hand to hand many remarked that he wielded but a pair of daggers, of which he carries many. His longbow received about as much use as did his sword, again exquisite in appearance many think of it as purely ceremonial. Assigned to a special skirmishing unit, the others in the group have come to know him as fiercely loyal and protective of his comrades. He seems to be all over the battle field at once and when someone is in dire need he aids them and whisks away to help another or else strike down the enemy. They have seen his green unfocusing eyes and elven features. He often sits as if admiring nature and looking through the tree, watching the sap flow. He takes meticulous care of his longsword and longbow; applying tallow or other berry wax to the bow and string, keeping his arrow fletchings groomed, and even oiling the blade of the longsword that he never uses. His daggers on the other hand receive a quick whisk against a whetstone, methodically, then returned to their position on his gear. He is rather general is his worship of deities, often nodding his head paying silent respects when passing shrines or symbols to Corellon, Sehanine, Labelas and Bahamut, the gods of the long-lived. He has spoken briefly to his friends about his goals, mostly that his lot is that of a warden of the spiral tower. Being one gifted to use magic he seems to use it very rarely as if he is on some test to not use a bow, sword or magic unless absolutely necessary. Over the years he fired maybe two arrows and cast some spell which flung a silvery bolt. Both instances occurred during a dire battle which lasted all of but a moment. Journal Game I Foreword: Ethyrion presented a bit of a shock to the Nerath Empire when he presented himself flatly to aid their cause. His Eladrin features prompted many stares whose owners quickly looked away when Ethyrion turned his pupil-less green eyes towards them. His gaze appears almost unnerving to those unaccustomed to his presence. He has taken to keeping his hood low over his eyes to keep the stares to a minimum. Those that know him can attest to his leadership abilities and an air of authority surround him, as if he is some Eladrin Lord of Winter. Those closest have heard him speak of being the Eladrin Prince of the Emerald Spire and a member of the Winter Court. Soft-spoken with an air of detachment describe his traits almost completely. He appears to regret or meekly endure his presence in the realm. Why he enlisted, why now, no one knows but him, and he definitely is not stating anything. Oten others have tried to engage him in conversation and his response is usually to stare away or piercingly right through the person. What he thinks, what he relishes, or dislikes all seem to be the same. For about a month no one even realized he spoke common until in combat he shouted a warning to a comrade about to fall victim to a surprise strike. He drew his longsword rarely if ever, mostly it hung as a decoration at his waist seemingly denoting some royal or noble lineage. When fighting hand to hand many remarked that he wielded but a pair of daggers, of which he carries many. His longbow received about as much use as did his sword, again exquisite in appearance many think of it as purely ceremonial. Assigned to a special skirmishing unit, the others in the group have come to know him as fiercely loyal and protective of his comrades. He seems to be all over the battle field at once and when someone is in dire need he aids them and whisks away to help another or else strike down the enemy. They have seen his green unfocusing eyes and elven features. He often sits as if admiring nature and looking through the tree, watching the sap flow. He takes meticulous care of his longswords and longbow; applying tallow or other berry wax to the bow and string, keeping his arrow fletchings groomed, and even oiling the blade of the longswords that he never uses. His daggers on the other hand receive a quick whisk against a whetstone, methodically, then returned to their position on his gear. Perhaps the fell creatures of this plane are not worth the strikes of his breathtakingly beautiful longswords and longbow. He is rather general is his worship of deities, stricly loyal to the Fey deities and often nodding his head paying silent respects when passing shrines or symbols to Corellon, Sehanine, Labelas and Bahamut, the gods of the long-lived. He has spoken briefly to his friends about his goals, mostly that his lot is that of a warden of the spiral tower. Being one gifted to use magic he seems to use it very rarely as if he is on some test to not use a bow, sword or magic unless absolutely necessary. Over the years he fired maybe two arrows and cast some spell which flung a silvery bolt. Both instances occurred during a dire battle which lasted all of but a moment. His gear and clothing seem to be pristine at all times. Typically wearing white robes with silver embroidery along the the hem, sleeve cuffs, collar, down the center and heavily on his white linen belt. The robe seems to have a shimmering green tint to it in various shades as if trying to blend with trees, grasses, leaves and even shadows. His longswords are in scabbards and the handgrips covered in a dark green felt like material with silver sigils embroidered onto the cloth. Chapter One: Ethyrion remembered the meeting as if it happened just the other day. The clarity however, was due to it technically being just a day ago. The group had awoken amid snow banks and fallen tree limbs, though they had left surrounded by the struggling heat of a late autumn day and a chilling night yet to come. The town of Fallcrest was a fairly well defended fort. A narrow road snaked up the mountain, the valley below mostly plains of ripened wheat with plenty of grazing land for animals. A breathtaking variety of glossy red and golden leaves framed the plains valley floor and provided a foothill border to most of the mountains off in the distance. Perched atop a mountainous, craggy knoll any passerby could easily spot the town, and the town could see any travelers as well. So it was the group trekked up the dusty road for much needed supplies and information. Nervous guards watched the group, seeing their emblems of Nerath Empire the guards relaxed. It was evident they were a hastily assembled militia. An elder and presumably a man of importance strode towards them slowly. "Greetings, I pray are you here to assist Sir Kegan?" the portly man asked. A merchant with a wagonload of supplies, foods and tools was preparing to depart the town as the heroes entered. "Good merchant Kalarel, on the morrow depart pray thee. For these fine warriors may need a guide to Sir Kegan's keep." The man referred to as Kalarel paused and with a wry smirk nodded, "Aye m'lord." Though his tone did not sound so grateful, his trip would be longer in making apparently. He circled his wagon back to the stable area and prepared to secure his wares and oxen for the night. "I am, Thom, the magistrate of Fallcrest, and it is my honor to entrust you to aid Sir Kegan. I shall even allow for provisions on our behalf for your journey and aid to him. But let us talk indoors." Chatting with humans was always boring to Ethyrion, they too often huffed and puffed on their station and self-importance. That they could change over and again, back and forth what the land would have done anyways but without so much destruction. The non-fey rarely allowed forests to recover and in general they bored him. Ethyrion broke out of his thoughts with practiced anticipation, smiling faintly at how he would break out of his reverie precisely when the fluff was over and stray words of import were spoke. "Sir Kegan, a paladin, guarding a seal to hold back the Shadowfell. Go to aid him, Master Kalarel the merchant will guide you on the morrow." After the Magistrate's talk the elder human spoke, again of the same things it seemed, trivial humans. "A seal located inside the keep...its tenuous task of preventing the shadowfell's encroachment... Sir Kegan needed aid...go with the merchant heading to another local town of Winterhaven...pass by the keep...Kalarel was the merchant's name." The next morn the adventurers gathered their offered supplies and departed with the merchant. Although talkative at first, Kalarel spoke directly to the group very little upon the journey. He spoke in seeming nonsense, always muttering under his breath and talking as if to people only he could see. His mutterings even persisted well into the night as he slept. So it was those thoughts were the last the small band of heroes remembered. Upon waking, Ethyrion noted the snow then looked to the wood itself. He scanned the area noting the same deer paths and tree growth he had scouted the night before. It now appeared a bit odd. A tree branch, freshly fallen, lay sprawled across what somehow, long ago, apparently had been their campfire. Most of the land lay dormant under a blanket of snow. The lay of the land was similar but where old fallen trees had lain was naught but a shallow mound, or a mature oak stood defiantly. Looking about he soon deduced the inevitable. Years had gone by, decades for sure, a century more likely. "The road survived so too have the towns and the Keep presumably," thought Ethyrion. The band realized Kalarel and his wagon were nowhere to be seen. "This road still sees much travel," Ethyrion said softly as he stood from his crouched position. His companions brushed the last bits of snow off their bedrolls and peered about. As the others rose from the age long slumber Ethyrion reflected on the prior events. They had been a band working for the Nerath Empire, battling against the shadow forces. Most of their company had been decimated. Their commander dead, the survivors agreed to aid a local lord, a paladin lord named Sir Kegan. Items ??? Features ??? Race ??? Class ??? Powers ??? Feats ??? Rituals ??? Category:Characters